Waifs and Strays [Larry Stylinson]

Chapter Nine

Hey, just some quick info:

There is going to be a lot of "Harry's POV" in the next chapters because this whole thing is just as new to him as it is to you. So maybe it's easier for you to see the story through his eyes.

But this story is still mainly intended to be written from Louis' perspective, so whenever it doesn't say otherwise, it's Louis' POV.

Also, if you ever feel completely lost by my cryptic writing, please just tell me in the comments, so I know how much more I need to explain. I don't want to give away all of Louis' past and his thoughts right away but I want you guys to be able to follow me. But to do that I need to know how much you guys understand.

I'm sorry for any typos, btw. And I'm going to stop talking now!

Here we go :)

Zayn and I went to The Iron Oak after all.

It was easier for him to persuade me after we both got a little high, it just didn't seem as bad of an idea to go anymore. At that time, it actually sounded like an adventure to me to go there.

But when we got there the anxienty kicked in.

Zayn found some old man in a quiet corner of the pub, with a long, grey beard, who smelled like mould and old skin. But he kept buying us drinks as long as we "listened" to his weird stories. He talked about his dancing goat for a good while, as far as I can recall. Zayn and I weren't really in a state to listen closely, we kept laughing about the way his beard was wiggling while he spoke and I am pretty sure Zayn fell off his stool twice. Or maybe it was me.

Nevertheless, that weird man couldn't distract my mind from the unease that place caused me, heightened by the effects of the drug I consumed earlier that night.

It felt like every second person in that pub was staring at me knowingly and it didn't help that our table was right next to the restrooms. Every time somebody went through that door, I turned my head away, so I wouldn't be able to actually look inside. And I'd have rather pissed myself in the middle of the pub than actually used the facilities there.

One time I wasn't fast enough at turning my head and I looked right at the sinks of the men's room. The mirrors there showed the opposite side of the room. Several urinals and just one single cubicle lined the opposite wall.

Seeing that cubicle brought back everything I've tried to push out of my mind completely in the past 7 years. It never really worked, but this time was one of the worse times.

I could practically feel the stranger's lips on mine, his scruffy chin grazing my jawline, my mouth exploring the length of his hard-on, only the fabric of his boxers between us and then, after I pulled those down too, nothing seperating our skin anymore-

And, shit, why was I even picturing that again? Why am I picturing it now? It's wrong, so wrong, and I know it. I've learnt my lesson, okay?

I'm lying in my bed, three hours after returning from the pub. And it's all I could do since then. Lie here and hate myself for going back to the pub, despite knowing better. Hate myself for letting my mind travel back to those images, and most of all, hate myself for actually liking them.

And it's all his fault. Only because of that rich kid, me and Zayn didn't stick to cigarettes earlier this night. Only because of that rich kid, I got too high to remember that I hate going to the Oak. And only because he reminds me of what I am every single time I look at him, all those restroom images came back to me tonight.

That's it! I'm going to tell him off. Right now! Who does he think he his, coming here with his puppy eyes and pouty lips, squashing all my hard work of being normal?